His bosom open to the nightly air,
Lone, o'er a new heap'd grave poor Basil bent,
And to himself began his simple plaint.

"Alas! how cold thy home! how low thou art!
Who wert the pride and mistress of my heart.
The fallen leaves light rustling o'er thee pass,
And o'er thee waves the rank and dewy grass.
The new laid sods in decent order tell
How narrow now the space where thou must dwell.
Now rough and wint'ry winds may on thee beat,
And drizzly drifting snow, and summer's heat;
Each passing season rub, for woe is me!
Or storm, or sunshine, is the same to thee.
Ah, Mary! lovely was thy slender form,
And sweet thy cheerful brow, that knew no storm.
Thy steps were graceful on the village-green,
As tho' thou had'st some courtly lady been:
At church or market, still the gayest lass,
Each younker slack'd his speed to see thee pass.
At early milking, tuneful was thy lay,
And sweet thy homeward song at close of day;
But sweeter far, and ev'ry youth's desire,
Thy cheerful converse by the ev'ning fire.
Alas! no more thou'lt foot the grassy sward!
No song of thine shall ever more be heard!
Yet now they trip it lightly on the green,
As blythe and gay as thou hadst never been:
The careless younker whittles lightsome by,
And other maidens catch his roving eye: